At the counsel table to the right sat Julian Reeves, polished and expensive in charcoal gray, with the easy arrogance of a man who had mistaken repeated luck for personal greatness. He had one arm stretched along the back of his chair and one hand resting near a thick binder his attorney had assembled for him. Every few seconds he glanced at the doorway, then at the clock, then at his attorney, not with worry but with irritation, as if the entire proceeding had become inconvenient by lasting longer than he had planned. His face carried the faint, dismissive smile of a man prepared to be publicly patient about a private cruelty. Beside him, though slightly behind to avoid the appearance of impropriety, sat Vanessa Cole.